Robin's Egg Blue
by Mlee.Write
Summary: Tag to 7 x 01, nothing but Blue Skies


**Robin's Egg Blue**

Rating: M

A/N: Set prior to the front porch scene in Nothing But Blue Skies

Jane shuffled around her house in her early morning light, finding a half gallon of orange juice in her refrigerator and a clean glass already in the cupboard. He liked this these hours, just after dawn, when the world was somnolent and quiet, and he could be solitary without feeling alone.

In the room down the hall, Teresa was sleeping. He knew what she looked like—had memorized it. One pale arm was thrown over her head, her hair a tangled, dark cloud on the pillow, her lips slightly parted. He'd kissed them softly before he'd gotten up, tugging on his shirt and slacks and wandering barefoot into her kitchen.

He felt languid and weightless, a little restless too. He took his juice into her living room and set his glass on her coffee table. There were boxes stacked neatly against one wall, and he opened one. He told himself that he was being helpful—certainly he could intuit where she'd put some of her possessions, DVDs on the DVD rack, for instance—that his actions were not born of nosiness. He removed a stack of coasters, placed them on the coffee table, and set his glass on top of one.

It was strange, being in a relationship like this. For him, perhaps, any relationship would feel strange now, but he could sense that Teresa was unsure as well. She was eager, but proceeding with caution, just as he was.

They were going backwards, in some sense, he reflected. In every relationship he'd been in, even in his hedonistic youth, there was safety in being able to reveal yourself one piece at a time, at your choosing. He of course was a master of what to reveal and what not, but it was normal for intimacy to grow before your partner knew all of your dirty secrets, your lies, the scars of your past. Even as his lovers stripped him bare, he held part of himself in check, kept his ugliness tucked away.

Angela had seen it eventually, of course. Later in their marriage they had fought relentlessly about his need to subvert, to con, to be in control. She had wanted him to give up his psychic schtick, and he had no intention of doing so. Still, he reflected, they would have pulled through it, had she lived.

Teresa already knew all his flaws, nearly all of his embarrassing secrets. She'd seen him at his lowest moments. There was so little left to expose, that each step they took physically felt all the more profound. Soon he would be completely bare to her—figuratively speaking—and so vulnerable that she could flay him with a word.

Perhaps that's why he hid behind gentlemanly civility. He had let her set the pace, always keeping his hands to the small of her back, his kisses soft. He had no refuge to hide behind. If he wasn't enough, if he disappointed her, the shame would be enough to kill him.

But now it was a little different, he reflected, sorting through a stack of her jazz CDs. He'd spent the night, and they'd been as compatible sexually as he could have hoped.

He'd taken her to dinner, not a fancy restaurant that she'd hate. Instead of amuse bouche, over-priced organically farmed fish and flights of wine, they'd feasted on ribs slathered thickly with sauce, cold beer and French fries. They'd listened to a blues singer caterwaul about broken hearts and empty wallets. They'd laughed, and both smelled of barbeque and woodsmoke after.

She'd invited him in for coffee, and a little drunk, he'd stumbled through her red door and into her kitchen, still smiling, his eyes fixated on the delightful curve of her ass in her blue jeans.

_Her cheeks were flushed, a little drunk herself, when she turned around and said on a laugh, "I don't actually know where I packed the coffee pot. Or my tea."_

_He realized a beat too late what anyone who dated in the past decade would have known. Coffee was of course of a euthempism for sex, and she gripped the lapels of his coat and kissed him, her small body pressed against his._

_He let his trembling hands move down her back, to cup her delightful backside pulling her more tightly against him. He marveled at how his hand spanned nearly the entire curve of her ass, at how tiny she really was. _

_She hummed against his lips, her fingers moving to his shirt, unbuttoning it with deft movements._

_He realized then that he didn't know how to proceed. Well, he _knew_, but it had been so long that he felt suddenly choked, overwhelmed by all the possibilities of their lovemaking. Had she been anyone else, he could have seduced her and worked his charm, but it would have been entirely shallow. Sex he could manage; making love felt like summiting Everest, his lungs starved for oxygen. _

_Sensing his trepidation, she pulled back. Her fingers were stroking the small V of bare skin she'd exposed on his chest, making his heart palpitate. "We can slow down," she whispered, her voice infinitely gentle, devoid of judgment or disappointment. "Or stop."_

_He let his gaze fall her to lips then, unable to meet her eyes. He tugged a curl of dark hair around his finger, overcome by her generosity, her kindness. Part of him wanted to flee. Part of him wanted to hoist her up on her kitchen counter and devour her. Part of him wanted to sink to his knees and bury his face against her stomach._

_Instead he said, "I love you," more to hear it himself than for her. He looked at her, leaving no question as to his intention, letting all the desire and he fear he was feeling show in his face, in the darkness of his eyes._

"_Come to bed?" she whispered against his lips._

"_Lead the way," he replied, punctuating each word with small kisses._

_Teresa Lisbon made love to him then, with all the tenderness and love he would have expected from her, all the kindness he knew he didn't deserve. Not that he was passive. Once her pale skin was exposed it would have been impossible to keep from stroking every curve, kissing every freckled inch. But it was her show, and she'd taken control and assuaged his fears._

_She'd undressed while he sat on the edge of her bed, his fingers gliding over every inch of bare skin she revealed. She bit her lip when she unhooked her bra, wiggled out of her jeans, inherently self-conscious about her body. She shouldn't have been. _

"_Bella donna," he whispered, tracing the swell of one breast before leaning forward to capture the peak between his lips. He tasted her nipples, berry-pink, and reveled in the way they grew hard against the flat of his tongue. She filled his hands, his mouth, so sweetly, and he memorized her little hiccupping sighs._

_Her hands went to work then on his jacket and shirt, bossy, demanding, and he helped her strip him to the waist. He didn't have time to worry about his own body because he was overwhelmed with touching hers. _

_He hadn't felt this raw, this eager, since he'd been a teenager. Every time she touched him, his skin jumped and twitched in response. He could tell by her flush, by her breathing that she was feeling the same way._

_Her hands shook when she unbuttoned his slacks and he helped her by kicking them off, taking his underwear along with them. She pushed him back on the bed, her hands small and hot against his chest, and straddled him, kissing him deeply. He could tell she was trying to slow down, not to rush him, but then his fingers found the slippery cleft of her sex, and good intention left her. _

_She reared back when he circled her clit, her pupils wide, and shivered. Her expression broadcasted her intention, questioning, asking his permission. His other hand went to her cheek, stroking her lips with his thumb, granting silent consent._

_She guided him inside her slowly, achingly, her eyes falling closed. He sucked in air between clenched teeth. He had forgotten that it could feel like this, an exquisite ache that ran all the way through to the small of his back. Or maybe it had never felt like this. _

_He could feel her fluttering around him already, so close to orgasm. "Jane," she whispered. "Patrick." Then she guided his hands to her hips, asking him silently to tell her what he needed. _

_Instead he sat up, wrapping her legs around his waist and his arms around her back. They shifted, the angle impossibly deep, and she made a sobbing sound in the back of her throat. She rocked back and forth, small, shallow thrusts that brushed her clitoris against him, her nipples along his chest. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him again, her small tongue in his mouth, the sensation unraveling him. _

_He clung to her, feeling the sweat bead on her back, listening to every gasp and moan. When her head fell back he buried his face in her neck, sucking gently on the skin there, the tip of his tongue counting every freckle._

_Her arms tightening around him when she came, growing wetter and hotter around him, and he groaned. She went limp in his arms, but he thrust into her, frantically, his hands clutching her back, until he came, gasping into the damp curve of her neck._

_They fell back into a sleepy tangle of limbs, and he felt exhausted, elated, more than a little grateful. He kept his arms locked around her, refusing to let go._

_She'd stroked his neck, kissed his chin. "Stay the night?" she'd asked._

"_I'll even get coffee in the morning," he'd promised, pulling her more tightly against him, tugging a sheet around her shoulders._

Now he stood in her living room, unwilling to wake her, but wanting to make to love to her again. He wasn't even remotely satisfied, suspected he never would be.

He reached into another box and his hands found a smooth, cool surface. He pulled a small lacquer box out, shiny and black, the surface inlaid with mother of pearl. Curiously, aware he was invading her privacy, he opened it.

He recognized the letters when he saw them, bundled and held together by a rubber band. He never thought about whether or not she kept them, but now he felt a bittersweet pang—sweet that they had meant as much to her as to him, and bitter that they had wasted so much time. Beside the letters was a small origami frog, his own making, he was sure, although he couldn't recall the occasion. But it was the folded brown paper bag that intrigued him most. He pulled the paper aside, careful to muffle the crinkling sound. He peered inside and saw the gleam of robin's egg blue porcelain wink back at him.

She had kept the remnants of his tea cup. It was shattered, useless and garbage now, but she'd bagged it up and it kept the broken pieces that had once meant something to him.

Very carefully, with shaking fingers, he put the box back where he found it, unwilling to let her know what he'd seen. Someday he'd bring it up, when he thought it wouldn't embarrass her, when he could discuss it without crying.

He walked back down the shadowy hall to her room, sitting on the edge of her bed.

Sleepily she rolled over, her eyes opening a crack, taking his clothed form. "Are you leaving?" she asked, her voice bleary. He could hear the anxiety there, the disappointment.

"No," he said, slipping between the sheets and resting his cheek against the swell of her breasts. Her fingers found his hair and he felt her sigh as she drifted off again. "I'm not leaving."


End file.
